


Making Concessions

by lyricalsoul



Series: Love and Happiness [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Moving In 'verse, POV First Person, and their food, mystrade, with apologies to Ikea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Lestrade is all moved in, Mycroft finds himself making a few concessions. And visiting Ikea. Dear lord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Concessions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestialteapot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialteapot/gifts).



> For Sherlock2040 (Celestialteapot), who asked for this months ago. It took me a while to figure out how to end it, but here it is. Better late than never, they say.
> 
> Thanks to all who read and leave kudos and comments and are patient with me as I struggle through writer's block and real life issues. I appreciate each one of you.

On the morning of our third week living together, I realised that getting used to the cacophony of sounds and smells and habits of another person was going to take much effort on my part.

By nature, I am a solitary person. To keep the overwhelming sensory overload that bombards my mind at any given minute, I immerse myself in routines, order, and silence. I begin every day with a cup of coffee (one sugar, no cream), a four- minute egg and light toast (ninety seconds in the toaster), a perfunctory glance through the papers, and attending to a few non-urgent work related items before dressing and heading off to work.

But now there’s Gregory… and, well, as much as I love having him with me, the noisome pestilence that is part and parcel of him living here is going to take some getting used to. He’s a bit slapdash about nearly everything related to cooking, so there is no telling how an egg will come out – green and overcooked, or partially raw. He isn’t particular about reading the paper in anything that resembles order, and is rather fond of gyrating about the kitchen while preparing his breakfast, headphones on, singing along to rather soulful songs about love and relationships.

“…love is walk down main street,” he warbles, swaying side to side, while filling his coffee cup. “Love is an apple honey so sweet…”

“Your toast is burning,” I say, watching the smoke curl up from the toaster slots.

He does a hip dip, then slides over to the sink and rinses his hands. “…is strange to me…”

I flick a cube of sugar in his direction.

“Hey!” He picks up the sugar cube and yanks the buds from his ears. “Why are you throwing sugar at me?”

I point at the toaster. “Rome is burning, Nero.”

“Ah, perfect,” he says, hitting the lever to pop out the now burnt bread.

“That toaster is state of the art. I won’t take kindly to you destroying it.”

“Everything in here is state of the art. Even the coffee.”  He puts the charred bread on a plate, and sits down. “Growing up, before my Dad made his money, he got this toaster from a second-hand shop. It had two settings – burnt, and raw. You got burnt more than anything, and I got used to it.”

“Heart wrenching.”

He sips his coffee, and shrugs. “You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, there are some elements of truth to your sad tale. But, I am of the opinion that menthol cigarettes have wreaked havoc on your taste buds.”

“I don’t smoke.” He remembers to whom he’s talking, and shrugs. “Well, much.”

“All that not smoking, and now you can’t taste things unless they’re charred.”

He shoves up his shirt sleeve, showing the nicotine patch there. “I’m working on it, all right? Don’t nag.”

I blink at the sharp tone, but swallow the cutting retort that comes to fore. “It wasn’t my intention to start a row, Gregory.”

“Sorry.” He tugs his sleeve back into place, and offers an apologetic smile. “That was harsh.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“That you are always about fifty steps ahead of me is something that I can live with,” he says with a tight smile. “But… being in a relationship where I’ve got no secrets, where I can’t be even a bit dishonest… well, it reminds me too much of working with Sherlock.”

“Unlike my brother, I do have a sufficient outlet to quell the onslaught of data that presents itself at any given moment, so there’s no need to worry about your secrets and lies, Gregory. I am well aware of them, but mostly ignore them as inconsequential. But, I do apologise for making you uncomfortable.  Have your toast the way you enjoy it, but know that if I find burnt toast crumbs in the butter, I will send you to the desert for retraining.”

“Shows what you know… I don’t use butter, just jam.” He smiles again, and I feel my heart skip a few beats at the beauty of it. “Mrs. Landingham got my favourite.”

“Plum, of course.”

There is a comfortable silence, as he eats his toast and egg, and I go back to reading the paper.

“I need a room,” he says after a few minutes.

“I’m sorry?” I set the paper aside, hoping I’ve misheard him.

“A room,” he repeats slowly, as if I’m dim-witted. “I need a room of my own.”

“Ah. Well, it wasn’t my intention to drive you from our bedroom in so short a period, but there is a suitable room in which you can sleep. You’ll have to slip across the hall to use the toilet, but it’s roomy, and gets a bit of afternoon sun. Good view of the gardens, and if you open the window, you can smell the azaleas in the spring.”

“Christ.” He presses a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, and breathes in and out for a few moments. “A bedroom? Where is that coming from?”

“You mentioned having a separate bedroom whilst you were married. I suppose that given your hours, and her penchant for other men, it shouldn’t surprise me. I am concerned that it has come up so early in our relationship, but again, not unexpected. Whatever you wish, I will try to accommodate.” Appearing unaffected is a finely honed skill that I was forced to adapt as a child, and as such excel at it. I take a leisurely sip of my coffee, and turn the page of the paper, taking in the contents of several articles with a single glance. And effectively ignoring him.

Of course, he breaks first, with no more than two minutes passing since my comment. “Mycroft.”

“Hm?” I shake myself from my pretend-reverie and look at him. “Yes, well, I will miss you, of course; however, I am certain we can come up with a schedule in which we can accommodate the other’s desi-“

“ _Mycroft_.”

At his exasperated tone, I put the cup down, and look at him, eyebrows raised.

“Have you… are you out of your mind?”

“Not that I am aware of, though at this point in my day, I wouldn’t rule out anything. Why do you ask?”

“Why the hell would I go to all the trouble of moving in here, and then sleep apart from you? I think all this change has addled your brilliant mind.”

“Most assuredly,” I agree. “Have I misunderstood your request?”

“Yes, you arse!” he growls.

Before I can comment on the fact that he actually growled at me, he goes on.

“Since you insist on bringing my marriage into this, let me make something clear to you, Mycroft Holmes: it’s done, and it has no bearing on what you and I do. I know you don’t forget things – that you file them away for later use, but please let this go. It’s done.”

“Gregory, it wasn’t my intention-“

“And to set the record straight, we were in separate rooms because even though I wasn’t there enough to matter to her, I also didn’t want that ah, intimacy once I found out about the cheating. It has nothing to do with us. I can’t imagine not sleeping next to you whenever I can.”

Sufficiently chastened, I offer a small smile of defeat. “Ah, well. I am only human, after all.”  

“There’s a surprise.” He laughs. “A Holmes admitting to being a mere mortal.”

“Mere? Hardly,” I retort. “What type of room were you in need of, if not a bedroom?”

“Where do you watch telly?” He goes back to his egg and toast. “Or just lie about? No, never mind – you’d have to be gang-pressed to have a lie in.”

“I must confess that aside from a few situations at work where it is required, I don’t much care for watching television.”

“How have we been together for nearly a year, and I don’t know this?”

“You do not observe, to coin a phrase.”

“I’m not you or your brother, but I observe plenty. We just haven’t stopped long enough to sit and be with each other. Out of bed, that is.”

“What else would this room of yours be used for besides watching television?” I try not to let my disdain for such trivial entertainment seep into my tone, but the way he stiffens minutely tells me I wasn’t successful.

“You can mock it all you like, but look at it from my side. I’m mad for you, and moving in here has turned my world upside down. My twice-scanned mail now goes to a secret post office box, I’m followed about everywhere by people and cameras, and don’t think I don’t know that the new desk clerk isn’t one of yours because they’ve been asking for an additional clerk for two years and the day after I move in with you, we get one. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

“Darren has been at the Yard for three years. He was only made visible when our situation changed.”

He makes a sound of disbelief. “My family, mates, and colleagues have to be vetted, and to add a cherry on top of my misery, I can’t figure out that Tardis-washing machine thing, so I can’t even lose myself in doing a mind-numbing chore like laundry.  I do love you, but I feel like I’m flat-sharing with the Queen.”

“She wouldn’t be so lenient about your treatment of her toaster.”

“Don’t change the subject. I just… well, I need a place where I can be me – to kick off my shoes, have a beer, watch a bit of footie, and pass out on the sofa in a pool of drool. I can’t do those things in any of the rooms here. They’re too…” he trails off.

“Too what?” I frown. “Pretentious?”

“It’s all you,” he sighs. “There’s nothing of me. I love it here – I feel comfortable, but it’s so posh and expensive, I’m scared I’ll break something. I’d never be able to hold my head up at work if I had my mates over to watch a match in the sitting room, or whatever it’s called. That coffee table-“

“Is handcrafted by a woodworking company that has been making furniture since-”

“The beginning of time. Yeah, yeah… All the more reason I need my own touch somewhere in here.” He looks me, then shakes his head. “We’re together, and that’s not going to change, but let’s be honest here. I’m Ikea and beer; you’re champagne and handcrafted tables. I need a sofa that I can spill things on, put my feet on, and not worry about stains or ruining some expensive table that cost more than my car. I can’t have my poker mates calling me ‘milord’ or ‘fancy pants’ or some other horrendous nickname, can I?”

“Heaven forbid they should.” I fail to see why that’s important to him, having been called worse, but I wisely refrain from saying so. “I can imagine they’d see me as your fancy man.”

“Mycroft.” With a sigh, he gets up, and comes over to put his arms over my shoulders. “It shouldn’t matter, but… it does a bit. I try to stay on the right side of things at work, with Sherlock helping on cases, but now moving in with you… people will talk.”

“People seem to do little else, it seems.  I can have your colleagues reassigned, if it would help.”

He presses a kiss on the top of my head. “Unfortunately, I need them. John won’t help with the paperwork anymore.”

With a great sigh, I tilt my head up to look at him. “I will admit that I did not factor in the importance you would put on what others thought of us. However, as I consider the house as much yours as it is mine, it won’t do for you to be uncomfortable. I’ll have a room cleared out for you.”

“Great,” he says, hugging me tightly, then stepping away. “You’ll go to Ikea with me, then?”

“What? Heavens, no. There are hundreds of places at which you can buy furniture, Gregory. Why would you willingly go to Ikea?”

“It’s the easiest option. And you’ll go with me because you want me to be happy.” He ducks his head, then looks up at me. “Don’t you?”

“Wheedling will get you nowhere.” I put my napkin on the table, and stand. “And do not think I will fall victim to the wide-eyed, pitiful look you do, either.”

“No?” He steps right into my personal space. “Maybe if I was lying down…?”

“I haven’t time to, ah…” I lose my train of thought as he moves behind me, and slides his arms around my waist. “Gregory…” I swallow hard as his hands move up, and push my braces off my shoulders. “Well.”

“Part of the journey is the preparation,” he says, and it sounds rather dirty with the way his voice drops several octaves. “Maybe if I ease your ah, tensions first, you’d be more… willing.” He nips at my ear, then does the same to the spot just above my collar. “Christ, you smell delicious. Makes me want to lick you all over. All morning. Do you think that’s something you’d like? You don’t have to go to work or anything, do you?”

“I...no, I don’t have to. It’s a habit.” I feel the heat crawling up my spine, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. “Gregory.”

 “I love when you say my name like that,” he purrs. “I don’t let anyone else call me Gregory, because no one can say it the way you can. Sexy, posh, and just a bit… ah… dazed, if a Holmes can be such a thing.  I want to hear you say it – no, moan it, while you fuck me really, really slowly.”

I open my mouth to refuse him, to pull my braces up, push him away, and go about my day in a responsible manner, to not be a slave to my base desires. But then, there’s the feel of his warm body at my back, and his deft fingers skating along the buttons of my shirt. And the absolutely delicious prospect of fucking him ever so slowly. “Perhaps I could be persuaded…”

“I’ll do my best.” He takes my hand and tugs me toward the lounge.

***

Two hours later, I find myself walking alongside a rather smug Gregory as he pushes a trolley on our second lap around Ikea. I am wishing for a country, any country, to start a war. Or a rumour of war. Or that some deeply religious Ambassador would die in the bed of an underage prostitute whilst clutching top secret documents. Anything but this hell. The hell that I’ve allowed him to entice me to with his surprisingly limber body and ever so talented tongue. Bastard.

“Stop frowning. You’re scaring people.”

“How can I not frown?” I counter. “This is utter insanity. Lunacy. Remind me again why I’m here.”

“I could unwrap this scarf and show you, or you can use your impressive memory and answer your own question.”

“Keep that scarf where it is,” I caution. We’d be under arrest if someone saw his neck.

“Right. So stop whinging.  Oh, I like that sofa.” He walks over and sits down on a garishly red sofa, bouncing up and down like a child. “Nice. Feels comfy. Come and sit.”

“No, thank you. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“You have a reputation to maintain In Ikea? Who knows you here?”

“In this sea of henpecked husbands, and over-eager university goers, one never knows.”

He wriggles against the cushions, and frowns. “Maybe not this one. Can’t imagine sleeping on it.”

“That’s reassuring. It looks like something from the set of a failed production of Waiting for Godot.”

“There was no sofa in that- Oh.” He gets up, hands on hips, glaring at me. “You promised you wouldn’t do this. You said you’d be open and non-judgmental.”

“For the record, I’m being pretentious; there’s a distinct difference. Besides, anything said during sex can’t be held against me.”

“You’re in a sex haze, and it’s making you pretentious. Right.” He stands and jerks the trolley forward. “Stop being an arse.”

“For the past hour, you’ve been subjecting me to prison-grade furnishings in horrid colours whilst walking me in a circle. Are you going to select any items at all this go round? This is the third time you’ve sat on this particular sofa and declared it ‘comfy’. How am I to refrain from commentary?”

Ignoring me, he goes over to a row of cheap lamps. “That’s a nice lamp.”

“Yes.” Perhaps if I keep to one word, non-committal answers, I can maintain some semblance of sanity.

“Help me get the box in the trolley.”

“Oh dear… did I fail to mention that I will not be providing manual labour during this outing?”

“So help me, if you don’t get over here…”

Resisting the urge to flee, I sigh and move over to the shelves. “Which one is it?”

“Edshult.”

“Is that even a real Swedish word?” I look at the item in question, and consider the legwork involved in getting it from the shelf and in the trolley. “And why is it in a box?”

He rolls his eyes. “We have to put it together.”

“Again, I have not contracted on for putting things together.” I look around the store, and spy exactly what I need to bring this arduous journey to an end. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“A moment.” I walk briskly against the sea of humanity allowing themselves to be herded around the store in a blatant attempt at… god knows what. Stepping up to the service kiosk, I offer a mild smile to the young man standing there in his annoyingly cheery yellow shirt. “Hello, Edward. I wonder if you would be so kind as to end your sexting session with your girlfriend and provide some assistance.”

“Um…” I watch as poor Edward flushes a deep red, but pockets his mobile. “How did you know? Are you upper management?”

“In a way, yes. You can provide assistance, correct?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Good. If you would be so kind as to walk over to the lamps section and offer assistance to the rather handsome gentleman with grey hair and a blue scarf, the world shall be your oyster.”

He frowns. “I don’t much like oysters, sir. And we’re not allowed to… it’s self-service, sir.”

“I am aware of what this store purports to be, but surely you can make an exception…?” I pull out my billfold, and extract a few notes. I fold them and hold them out to him. “Perhaps an incentive? Or a tip, if you will. Between us.”

“We don’t-” He hesitates, looks around, then takes the notes. “Grey haired gentleman, did you say?”

“Yes. Blue scarf. Let him know you’ve come at my request, and that I had to take a call.”

“Are you sure, sir? Won’t he-“

“Trust me, Edward,” I say, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “I won’t be long.”

“All right, then.” He nods and heads off.

I take out my phone and dial. Anthea answers after half a ring. “I need you.”

“Sir, it’s Sunday, which we agreed, that baring acts of war, treason, and international incidents, would be my day off.  Are we at war, has there been treason, or an incident?”

“Well, one could say. I am in Ikea.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“How on earth did you… no, I don’t want to know.”

 “You do not. I need your help.”

“Were you kidnapped? Has there been a ransom demand?”

“You are, as ever, hilarious. If you could manage to set aside your penchant for teasing me at inappropriate times…”

“Sorry, sir,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Would you like me to shut it down? We’ve got bomb threat and toxic fumes as the most plausible excuses.”

“I am here of my own free will. A slave to my emotions, it seems. I need two things: a charity to which I can donate some furniture, and some furniture that is of good quality that looks like it may have come from Ikea, but did not. ”

“This is utter insanity, sir. Can’t you just… this once…”

“No. Anthea, I have been walking in a circle for an hour. To keep from going mad, I have solved three ancient mysteries, developed a theory on black holes, and reunited a couple on the brink of divorce. In fifteen minutes, he is going to suggest that I eat Swedish-type meatballs. And did I mention the _walking_? Please.”

“This is above and beyond my duties as your assistant,” she chides. “And I’m at brunch.”

“Sylvester-“

“Silas,” she corrects.

“Won’t mind if you make a few calls, will he?” He won’t last the week if he does.  “I’ll reward you handsomely.”

“Just how handsomely? And your undying gratitude isn’t nearly enough.”

“Anthea… I haven’t much time.”

“No, sir.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake… fine. A week away, anywhere you’d like. Without your mobile, laptop, or tablet.”

“I noticed you didn’t mention monitoring,” she sighs. “When would you like the furniture delivered?”

“The details will be forthcoming. Code three-zero-seven  in approximately twenty minutes. And extend my apologies to Silas for disrupting your brunch.”

“It is always my pleasure to assist you, sir.” She rings off with a laugh.

I pocket my mobile and go back to where Gregory and Edward are in a deep discussion about the best table to use for poker. “Apologies, Gregory. A minor crisis.”

He looks up with a small frown. “Do you need to go? Since I now have Edward to assist me, you’re off the hook.”

“No, no… Edward is here to do the heavy lifting, and stock checking. I promised you I’d accompany you to journey’s end, so let’s continue, shall we?”

***

“You did that, didn’t you?”

I look up from my mobile with a frown. “Hm?” We are well away from the mildly panicked crowd hovering behind the caution tape. I note with satisfaction that the Haz-Mat van has arrived. “Just what is it I’ve done?”

“Oh, please!” Gregory hisses. “I don’t know how you did it, but you I know it was you. Toxic fumes in Ikea. Definitely you.”

“I assure you, I would have liked nothing better than to continue walking the circle of furnishings with you, but toxic waste is not to be toyed with.” I smile (insincerely), and gesture at the boxes near his feet. “You did manage to get your lamp. And that rather questionable thing they’re calling a coffee table. The rest of the items you’ve chosen will be delivered later in the week.”

“You’re putting the table together. All on your own.” He chuckles. “The film of you trying will make a nice addition to my Holmes collection.”

“No one who has had the audacity to do such a thing has lived to tell about it.” I look up and see the car pulling into the slot right near the tape. “Ah… our chariot awaits.”

“The car? Now I’m sure you planned this.” He shakes his head. “Hey, Liam.”

“Mister… ah, Detective Ins… Greg… Lestrade,” Liam stammers. “Hello. Oh, and to you, sir. Hi… that is good afternoon.”

I roll my eyes, and point at the boxes. “If you would be so kind as to put those in the boot, Liam.”

“Yes. Yes, Mr. Holmes.” He hoists the boxes and fits them into the boot with care. “Home, sir?”

“No,” Gregory says before I can answer. “You can go on and take the boxes home. Mr. Holmes and I are going to have a bit of lunch, and then get a cab home.”

“Gregory-“

He holds up a hand. “No, Mister Toxic Fumes. They’re giving everyone a Swedish meatballs dinner for the inconvenience. I’m of a mind to stay and take advantage of their generous offer. And so are you.”

“I don’t like-“

His hands toy with the loose knot of his scarf. “With lingonberry jam.”

“And so you shall have it,” I sigh in acquiesce. I turn to Liam, who is staring at Gregory with full on worship. “Liam, stay on call for the remainder of the afternoon, if you would. I may need you to go by Baker Street.”

Liam goes a bit pale at that, but he swallows hard, and says, “Of course, sir.” He nods to Gregory, and gets into the car.

“That wasn’t nice.” Gregory says. “Sherlock fetching is horrendous work.”

“Indeed it is.”

“Well, you know best.” He tugs at my arm. “I think they’re giving the all clear. The lines will be long if we don’t head over there.”

“Yes, we wouldn’t want to miss out on such a delicious offering. I’ll bet they are so good they will put any Swedish grandmother to shame.”

“Yeah, yeah… Inside with you.” He smiles, and presses a kiss to my cheek. “You’re a horrible boyfriend in this respect, Mycroft, but I do love that you’re willing to try.”

***

I groan in frustration as the coffee table falls over for the fifth time. “Bugger.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead and pick up the instructions again. “There must be some missing screws. Or the instructions are wrong. Why won’t it stand up?”

“He is the British government, but he can’t use an Allen wrench. Saints preserve us.” Gregory laughs and takes another picture of the mess I’ve made of the table. “This is priceless.”

I resist the urge to set fire to this hideous table, stab Gregory with this stupid wrench, and escape to Rome. I take a deep breath, let it hiss out between my teeth, and began the arduous task of unscrewing the millions of screws. For the sixth time.  

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> The song Lestrade is singing in the beginning is L-O-V-E (Love) by Al Green.


End file.
